


My bright is too slight to hold back all my dark

by acciowinter



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Comfort/Angst, Drinking, M/M, i like to formally apologize for making louis the victim of my own anxiety and dark thoughts, i tried to build in some ot5 because they give me life, louis loves everyone a lot but doesn't love himself, so harry loves him twice as much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-03-17 23:26:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3547667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acciowinter/pseuds/acciowinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was a puddle maybe, a leftover sip in an old water bottle if that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. blue

**Author's Note:**

> I intend to cover as many colors as possible. I have a couple of them done already and will post them individually. If anyone has a great idea for a color and an idea on what to do with that color please let me know, I sometimes get stuck.  
> The idea came from an amazing Harry Potter fic I read back in the days and which inspired me so much, it was so well written. So here I am forcing the colors on Louis. I hope it works?  
> The title is from the song "Jesus Christ" by my absolute favorite band Brand New. Listen to it! I promise you won't regret it. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Not even Louis :( None of this is in any way associated with the boys and their families/friends. This is not based on real life events. This is a work of fiction.

There is an interview and the interviewer is a random guy whose face is not made up of a nose or eyes or mouth, it’s so plain Louis forgot about it the moment he left the studio. The guy asked them what colors they associated with each other. It was a question that made Niall almost jump from his stool, rambling about the Irish flag like the country pays him for promotion. Louis felt Zayn’s body buzzing next to him because that question is so Zayn. They all had their answers on the tip of their tongues and none of their answers matched Louis’.

Louis is blue, someone said and Louis can’t remember who but no one questioned it. Blue. Blue what. What blue. Everything is blue. Skies and seas and waves and football jerseys and jeans and kitchen towels and bathroom tiles. Louis is none of these things. His eyes are blue but not even nice blue just pale blue. Like the tiny particles that make up his body couldn’t fucking decide what color to make this eyes, so they decided to give them the tiniest hint of blue instead of leaving them pale.

After the interview they ate hurriedly backstage before going to a different place for a different interview, always going places, never arriving anywhere. Louis wanted to know, why blue. And so he asked. And Zayn had looked at him, surprised, as if the question was so fucking stupid, as if it wasn’t obvious. Niall had answered first, still chewing but trying to talk simultaneously. “What do you mean, mate? Your eyes are sick.” And Liam had given an approving little nod and had then returned to his food. It was Harry who looked at him with big Bambi eyes, the slightest hint of doubt in them, as if questioning if Louis was just casually joking around. When Harry realized that Louis was dead serious, his mouth twitched and the tiniest shadow cast over his eyes and it wasn’t lost on Louis. “You are like water, Lou. Untamable and loud. You could crush everyone if you wanted to but you decide not to. Strong enough to hold up a ship but able to slip through fingers.”

Louis wanted to shove the words back into his mouth, wanted to unhear them, wanted to not have them affect him. Louis looked away quickly and he swallowed a thousand tiny blades made up of words that shouldn’t matter, of looks that shouldn’t be exchanged. He felt like crying then, wanted to be alone. The room was too full, too bright, too much, always too much. And he didn’t fit. He was a puddle maybe, a leftover sip in an old water bottle if that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shameless stole this quote ( "Strong enough to hold up a ship but able to slip through fingers." ) from the wonderful Michelle Williams. It just stuck with me, it's such a powerful image. All credit goes to her. 
> 
> PS: I feel like Louis is more than blue. I feel like Louis is the kind of person who thinks of himself as one plain color but everyone else sees the entire color palette.


	2. green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes Harry looks at him and he swears his world collapses around him in all greens.

Harry’s eyes are green. Deep green on dark days like the sea but less scary. Light green on days the sun hits them just right on their way to early morning rehearsals. Louis thinks he could drown in them if he didn’t pay attention. He would get lost like he did in the forest back home when he was nine and his friends had suggested a game of hide and seek and being afraid was not an option. He would get lost and wander around, aimelessly, trying to find an exist but only getting lost in the maze even further. Sometimes Harry looks at him and he swears his world collapses around him in all greens.

Green is the color of hope and the grass on a perfect summer day. And sometimes Louis realizes he wears green because his nan always told him he looked handsome in green but it was never really his. Louis can’t recall ever taking particular interest in green when he grew up. Green was always just kind of there, but nothing more, nothing that made him look at it twice, made him consider it special. Now it’s special. Now green is not just green. Now green is honest eyes, and microphone tape and Green Bay Packers hats. Now green matters.

It’s September, probably the first chilly day of fall and the van came to pick them up way too early for a day like that. Louis is cold and he swears he couldn’t wear more clothes if he tried. The road is bumpy and the heating is on and Louis hates the smell of car heating and shitty music at 7 in the morning. He is wearing grey sweatpants and his knee bumps against Harry’s in a rythmic pattern. His curly head is leaned against the window and his eyes are shut against the rising sun. All Louis can think about is how they should still be fast asleep and Harry’s head should be resting on his chest, not on some cold, dirty car window in some random van.

The music gets worse the longer they drive if that is even possible. He can hear the obnoxious bass from Zayn’s headphones and Louis doesn’t have a fucking clue where they are going, can’t remember the name of the studio or the city. Sometimes he thinks he doesn’t even care as long as he gets there and as long as he is not alone once he does. The song changes and Louis sighs, he can hear Niall and Liam talking hushed in the seats behind him. His hand starts twitching and sometimes Louis hates how he can never sit still or hold still or shut his mouth for longer than ten minutes. His hand automatically moves towards Harry’s thigh because Harry can calm oceans. Harry lazily opens his eyes and Louis breath catches because it’s all green eyes for miles ahead.  The sun just came up behind the trees and Louis has to squint to make out anything at all. There is only green and gold and all he can think is that green and Harry and harrygreen is too much, too bright, too everything for Louis.

Harry smiles at him and mouthes “Hi” and looks directly at Louis. His hand twichtes again and he shivers. Harry’s hand moves to cover his and it’s warm on cold, color on pale, light on dark. He can feel the touch in his bones and his muscles relax and for the first time that morning he can lean back without holding his breath. “Hey” he whispers back and he finds it strange that his words come out at all. He swallows and closes his eyes, head turned towards Harry. He can feel his heart in his chest and the twitching in his hand subside. Harry squeezes his hand lightly but soveryextremelyimportant that Louis wants to cry. Because everything is greengreengreen and Harry is holding his hand and no one elses. He thinks about how Harry is earth and sea all at once and about how Louis thinks there is never any air when it comes to Harry, yet his breath steadies and his hand stops twichting and his entire body relaxes and he closes his eyes and all he sees is green.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> of course Harry is green, how creative of me.
> 
> I don't have a beta so I apologize for all mistakes I make as English isn't my mother tongue. If you want to be my beta please get back to me, I'd love you forever!


	3. purple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Subtle things are purple, things that are hidden, under layers of clouds or clothes.

There are not a lot of purple things in the world. If asked, Louis couldn’t name one from the top of his head. Subtle things are purple, things that are hidden, under layers of clouds or clothes. When he was 13, he had a girlfriend named Tess. Tess was blond and quiet and a lot shorter than him. In general they were mostly opposites, Louis never sitting still, Tess always atentive in the front of the classrom. He gave her purple lilacs on valentine’s day and she kissed his cheek and her eyes were hollow smoke, Louis couldn’t make out their color. They stayed together for almost a year and they touched in a lot of places, but none that mattered. Tess never left a bruise on his skin.

Louis doesn’t bruise too easly. His skin is pretty thick, or so he likes to pretend. He sometimes got bruises from football practice with the lads, or when he stumbled home drunk, bumping into the sharp edge of the kitchen table. It wasn’t something that bothered him, they came, stayed for a couple of days and then slowly faded and Louis never wasted a second thought on any of them.

Harry leaves bruises on him all the time. Visible ones that live on his arms and legs and stomach for days, never seeming to fade. Playing along his vains like snakes, circling around his arms and shoulders and ankles. He doesn’t know if he hates how Harry can mark him like that without hurting him, how his body physical remembers Harry’s touches for days. Sometimes when Harry is gone and his bed is cold and he shivers, he presses down on the bruise and it hurts in the best way possible.

Harry leaves bruises on him all the time. Invisible ones under his skin that never show unless he is alone in dark hotel rooms. Invisible ones that eat him up slowly, purple bruises that dig at his inside and squeeze his heart until his head starts spinning. They crawl under his skin like small spiders slowly working their way through Louis’ body until everything just hurtsscreamsharry. The thing with Harry is, he has made Louis vulnerable, the one thing Louis never wanted to be, the one thing he dreaded. Before Harry dug himself under Louis skin and spread through his entire being, making himself small to fill Louis’ empty shell and eat away at his hear. Before Harry, Louis was made out of steel.

Some nights when they are not on the road, nights when they don’t come in a pack of five but as a person with a name that isn’t attached to a multimillion dollar brand, Louis gets impressively drunk. His alcohol collection is extensive and probably ridiculously expensive but it annoys the fuck out of him because when he is alone he can never decide what to drink. He doesn’t have a favorite, always goes with the flow, loves random suggestions for drinks by his friends or picks a bottle with closed eyes. He is a pathetic drunk and he knows it. He runs into tables and wakes up with bruised shins, he swears too much and sings Spice Girl songs off key and makes sure to leave them on Zayn’s voice mail.

Louis hates being alone and so alcohol becomes his best friend, replaces the empty feeling at the pit of his stomach, fills his veins with a buzzing sensation and drowns the insecurities growing in the very core of his being. But the voices never quite fade, he can still hear him over the rum and the vodka and the tequila. Voices that have been there all his life, voices changing from dads to stepdads to tv audiences to fans to harryharryharry. They steal his breath and rob him of sleep. He calls Harry at pricesily 1:01am.

“Yeah?” Harry’s voice is low and raspy and fuck, Louis’ world is spinning.

“Heeeeey-a ‘arry!!!” He is trying not to slurr his words but there is not an ounce of strength left in him.

He hears conversations in the background. He can see Harry surrounded by a shit load of friends, everyone admiring the boy with the curls and dimples and legs for days. He can hear someone calling Harry’s name at the end of the line and it is like a punch to the gut, Louis wants to hit something.

“Are you drunk?” And it comes out flat, his words barely a whisper but Louis can hear it crystal clear, cutting through him, leaving purple marks in the process.

“I may or may not be. Who knows.” His voice is loud and it rings in his own head, he can hear it mingle with his heartbeat in his ears.

“I can’t really talk right now but maybe you should go to bed.” Harry’s voice is as deep as an ocean and Louis thinks he may drown in it.

“Harry, please.” He is fucking pathetic and he knows it, but the voices in his head are so loud and Harry is so far away he doesn’t think he fucking cares.

“Grab some water and some ibuprofen and go to bed.” The tide crashes in, water level slowly rising.

“Just talk to me for a while, please.” Louis wants to smash his head against a wall, see the colors that will spill out, get rid of the fucking mess that is his brain.

“I can’t right now. Try to sleep, we can talk tomorrow.” The voices in the background fade in and out and the air is getting thinner.

“I can’t do this anymore.” Louis thinks that this is what drowning must feel like. All purples and blues and yellows and he lies down on the cold floor, closing his eyes.

Harry stays silent for what feels like an eternity. Louis can feel every fiber of his body and he digs his fingernails into the soft skin of his arm, pain as an anchor so the tide won’t wash him away.

“I know.” A heartbeat in his ear and he might have missed it. It’s whirlwinds of purple.

“I will call you tomorrow. Try to get some sleep now.”

  
Harry hangs up before Louis can say another word. It takes Louis twenty minutes to drag himself off the couch, punch the wall on his way to the bathroom and empty his stomach into the sink. He wakes up with purple bruises blossoming on his fists and a head full of water, making him dizzy with every move. He hates his vulnerabilty and his inability to be alone and he hates how Harry makes all of this even worse. Makes him a thousand times more vulnerable, makes him want to spend everysinglefuckingheartbeat of his life with Harry. But mostly he hates how he doesn’t hate Harry at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was so angsty, i'm sorry. 
> 
> i have black, gold and orange in my drafts. i hope i can manage to finish them this week if work doesn't get in my way again. 
> 
> thanks for the love in form of kudos and comments <3 you are wonderful, it means the world.


	4. orange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Louis thinks of home, he thinks of orange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me a lot longer than I planned. I am sorry. 
> 
> I am still in Zayn pain to be honest :'(  
> but HL are as real as ever and I think orange is such a lovely color to associate with them. I hope their house is all shades of orange, all warm and safe. aaaaaaaanyway, whoever reads this: thank you! I appreciate every comment and kudos

When Louis thinks of home, he thinks of orange. Like the sky just before the sun sets, the way the color clings to the horizon before everything turns dark. Orange isn’t angry like red or faint like yellow.

Orange is what he sees when he wakes up next to Harry, both crowded on one side of the too big hotel room bed. Louis’ eye lashes flutter open and his vision is blurry, all soft orange edges and dancing dots. He can make out Harry, the back of his head, brown curls everywhere, so close that when Louis exhales they dance on the pillow case. Louis doesn’t know where Harry begins or ends, he is so much, so close. The early morning sun covers the entire room in orange and Harry’s outlines are fading into it, making Louis lose track of time and space.

It’s only natural that the definition of home changes once you grow up, that it detaches itself from certain places, moves around with you to settle down elsewhere. His mom’s house is still home and the sensation of orange always lingering there when he opens the front door and steps into the small room, crowded with coats and shoes and memories of childhood. But orange has also moved out with him and setlled into other places, like his apartment in London where he keeps all his personal things, photographs and football jerseys and gifts from Harry.

There is an orange knitted jumper that he wore for an interview once. The material is soft and light on his skin and he liked it the minute he had put it on. He remembers that day, remembers it in laughs echoing in the stony hallway, yells from fans waiting outside the building, remembers every look from Harry, burning holes into his skin. What Louis doesn’t remember is when he fell in love with Harry. But when he thinks about that day, everything is covered in orange, bright endless sunsets and warm fuzzy feelings. Harry is giddy with happiness that day, it’s painfully annoying and Louis wants to steal the smile off his face and hide it somewhere safe, somewhere where no one but Louis gets to see it. Harry makes sure to touch Louis at least once every minute, like a game and Louis makes sure he reminds himself to breathe every once in a while.

Later that day they are on a plane ride back home and Louis is tired but restless, his arms are constantly moving and he draws circle on the palm of Harry’s hand, never ending circles. The plane is humming loudly but Louis can still hear Harry breathing, with his head resting on Louis’ shoulder, eyes closed, a smile tugging at his lips.

“You are all soft,” Harry mumbles and Louis thinks that’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard.

“Shut up” He says but he is smiling, the weight of Harry’s head on his shoulder stable and reassuring and so so lovely.

“It’s this jumper. I like it. I like you and I like this jumper. Wear it more often.” It’s ridiculous how Harry can say it with his eyes closed and yet Louis knows exactly what his eyes would look like if they were open. He would like Harry’s eyes to be open. Drowning in green never sounded more appealing.

“Do you like me or the jumper better?”, Louis asks and the plane is still humming and the warm light of the sun is spilling into the cabin. It would be nice to just keep flying, he thinks. Circle the sun and count all the different shades of orange, count how long it would take for him to get sick of it.

“I always like you better than anything, silly.” Harry has lifted his head and looks at Louis, eyes on eyes, green on blue. Louis has to blink to make Harry come back into focus, the sun is tangled in his curls, orange stars dancing around his head. It’s overwhelming how much Louis wants to kiss Harry, wants Harry close and closer and closest. Harry grabs his hand and entwines their fingers, weighing him down, holding him close, anchor and rope. Harry puts Louis’ hand to his mouth and kisses every single finger so carefully Louis can barely feel it. There are a million butterflies hitting his ribcage and he can’t remember having no air to breathe ever feeling so good.

They have another interview at yet another studio and Louis has lost track of where they are or who they are talking to. The room that was set up for them is ridiculously big and Louis wonders who thinks they need that much room. In the corner is a table full of food, fruits and granola bars, snacks to last them at least one month. He wonders who will eat all that food because they sure as hell won’t. He wonders if it all goes to waste after they leave or if someone has the decency to give it to people who actually need it. There are oranges too and of course Harry peels himself one, neatly and precise, barely looking while he does it. The entire room smells of oranges and Louis thinks he might faint, the room is spinning with the intense desire of wanting to go home, of wanting to be somewhere where no one is watching, analyzing, ciriticizing his every step. He excuses himself and steps into the cool hallway, all fluorescent light and ugly whites. He leans against the wall and breathes into his stomach like a doctor once told him, when the anxiety gets too much. It might be hours, maybe just minutes until Harry steps out into the hallway, his eyes worried, brow furrowed.

“Hey.” Harry says, voice barely a whisper as he crouches down next to Louis. His legs are so long that his feet almost touch the opposite wall of the hallway.

“Hey.” Louis replies and he closes his eyes because everything is too much right now, even speaking a single syllable word.

“You okay?” Harry asks and his voice is so gentle and concerned, Louis feels the lump in his throat rising. No, he will not fucking cry. He will suck it up and act like a grown up and not melt into a puddle of emotions.

“Uhm… yeah.” It comes out croaky and so pathetic he wants to fade and never reappear.

“It’s just…” I want to go home, I want to be someplace safe, I want to hug my mom and hear my sister’s laugh in the room next door, I want to smell oranges and not have a mental breakdown, I want to hold your hand while walking down the street, I want to kiss you when I feel like it, I always want want want and I don’t know how.

“I know. It’s just today and tomorrow and then we can go home. We can go visit your family right away if you want to.” And it takes Louis’ everything to not start crying, to not let his head drop to Harry’s shoulder and let Harry calm him down by stroking his hair.

Harry drops a kiss to Louis’ head and presses his hand reassuringly. “C’mon, let’s get this over with!”

Louis sighs and rubs his hands across his face. He looks up at Harry who is standing above him, at least ten feet tall. He is wearing all black and Louis thinks how ironic that is when Harry is nothing like black, not ever. In that dimly lit hallway Harry looks at Louis like he is waiting just for him. And Louis thinks about a quote he once read: “You can’t make homes out of human beings.” And he thinks about that how that’s exactly what he does, what he has been doing. Because home is orange and orange is here. Harry is orange in form of words and touches and kisses. Louis looks up at Harry and sees hurricanes of orange tangled in Harry’s hair, almost halo-like surrounding his head.

  
Louis thinks he is lucky really. He knows that orange follows him around and that’s something not a lot of people have. Orange is spilling from Harry’s mouth when he presses kisses to Louis’ eyelids and cheekbones; orange lulls him to sleep when jet lags make Harry hum his favorite song in the early morning hours of random hotel rooms; orange waves crush over him when Harry hugs him for two minutes straight and only lets go because someone ushers them into the next room, the next plane, the next harsh spotlight. When Louis thinks of Harry, he thinks of orange. And maybe that’s what Harry is, home.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys, i have a tumblr too: overratedashell.tumblr.com 
> 
> ps: i hope the next chapter is up rather sooner than later.


	5. Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Black is not a dominant color in Louis’ life. Not anymore. It used to be, years back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i knew i would suck at updating. but i didn't think it would be this bad. i am forever sorry :(  
> it's black today because black has been keeping me preoccupied lately. i might love black clothes but a black heart is the worst. i don't know why i wrote this when harry has just gone back to posting colored IG photos. 
> 
> (i also have another chapter almost ready but it doesn't have a colored theme yet and therefore i am lost. bear with me!)

Black is not a dominant color in Louis’ life. Not anymore. It used to be, years back. Now the black is sprinkles here and there, he goes weeks without them but then comes a week plastered in black and Louis loses sight of the road. Every person has black no matter how much they pretend they don’t, his mom told him one rainy monday night in the blurry light of their small kitchen, faucet leaking in the background. She had kissed the top of his head and drank up her tea before going upstairs to check on the girls.

 

Between 13 and 15 Louis was covered in black to a point where he didn’t remember getting out of bed in the morning. His mom had to force him, pulling back the covers, letting the sun in where there was no room for it. There was black under his blanket on his bed, in every corner of the corridor at school, under his skin, working its way up to his heart one day at a time. He could no longer pay attention, his legs moving all the time, his grades dropping below average. His teacher sighed and called home, asking his mom in for a conversation about her ‘problematic son’.

 

He had ‘lack of focus’ and ‘no ability to concontrate’. He was ‘rude, noisy and disrespectful’. He knew they were right, too. Couldn’t remember a single day where school didn’t piss him off, not a single day he didn’t want to scream at the top of his lungs and get the hell out of there, never looking back. But he wanted to go to university and not be a disappointment to his mom. So he stayed in school and tried to keep his head down, let the dark swallow him up, let it fill his mind with thoughts that were too heavy to voice.

 

The only time dark was replaced by lighter shades of grey was under the floodlights of the football pitch where his team practised twice a week. No matter how edgy he was, once he put his kleats on and stepped on the freshly mown grass he felt the weight being lifted off his shoulder. He knew what he was doing, he knew the rules and the drills and he was in control.

 

He was 15 and they had just won the last match of the season. The team was euphoric, yelling, high-fiving, throwing things at each other in the locker room. The night was warm in late May, they all got beer at the grocery store down the street and hung out at the pitch until dusk turned the sky a dark blue, the stars clearly visible. Louis remembered that night so vividly he could still draw the outlines of the star concellations on an empty piece of paper. He was buzzing from the beer and the feeling of victory and he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt like that, couldn’t remember anythig but a black chain of days without end.

 

At some point everyone had left and he and his team mate Eric were left behind. They sat at the edge of the pitch in the grass and laughed about the idiots on their team. Louis’ head was spinning, he had stopped counting after beer five and he was feeling warm and fuzzy. They talked about everything at once and nothing at all and Louis hadn’t felt so at peace in a long time, dark was crouched into a corner of his mind, asleep.

 

They ended up sitting really close to each other and when Louis lay down and let the the grass tickled the skin of his arms, Eric let himself fall beside him. Their arms touched and Louis’ skin was burning, hot and so different to everything else he has ever felt. Eric’s hand touched his and Louis sweared that even people in London could hear his heart beat. Eric’s finger were soft and drawing circles on his underarm and Louis wished they could stay like this forever. He had no fucking clue what he was doing but it all felt so right, so essential to grab Eric’s hand and interlace their fingers.

 

They stayed like that for a long time, hours, maybe days and weeks and months. They walked home together, fingers entwinded loosely, their hands anchoring them to each other. It felt nice to have that steady weight at his side, someone to keep him in balance, someone to steady the fucking rollercoaster his life was. They stopped in front of Louis’ house and looked at each other way too fucking long. And Louis cleared his throat and said, hoarsely: “See you tomorrow then, I suppose.” And Eric smiled and nodded: “Can’t wait.” and dropped the lightest of kisses on Louis’ cheek.

 

They kiss in a lot of places after that. In the wooden shed next to the football pitch after practice, when the floodlights are turned off and the only sound they hear is the wind coming through the cracks of the wood. They kiss under the shadows of Louis’ bedroom window before he sneaks back inside at 2am on a school night. They kiss in secret and it’s rushed and sloppy but he likes the feeling of pressing his body into Eric’s and feeling the rush of something that actually makes him feel _something_ for once.

 

It lasts for exactly three months and fourteen days and when Eric leaves it’s like black waves are crushing over him. Eric is good at football, he is really good. He is so good that some agent came up to him and asked him to come play for a second league club. It would take Louis precisely three hours and twenty-four minutes to drive there by car, three hours and fortytwo minutes by train. Louis doesn’t have a car and not enough money to pay for the train. The day Eric leaves he doesn’t look Louis in the eye. He tries to reach for Louis’ hand when they stand outside Eric’s house, street lamps casting shadows on their faces. Louis pulls away before they touch. He doesn’t want to do something stupid, like cry, like begging Eric to stay.

  
After Eric is gone, Louis kisses a lot of girls. He gets drunk and plays spin the bottle, he smokes weed and laughs so much his voice gets hoarse. He kisses girls whose names he can’t remember and whose lips are never chopped. When they hold his hand he can barely feel the weight there, they are feather light, barely noticeable. He sleeps with two of them and he hates how his skin burns against theirs and how everything feels slightly tilted. He misses Eric, he misses Eric’s touch to his skin and how holdig his hand kept Louis in balance. He misses Eric’s chopped lips, the light stuble on his chin and his roaring laughter under the lights of the football pitch. Louis misses the way Eric had sucked up most of the blackness, just to replace it with an entire new shade of the color. Black was a bit darker, a bit heavier, a bit more hopeless. Louis never speaks of it once. 


	6. the whole spectrum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't own anything. all of this is a work of fiction. 
> 
> (not sold on my own idea of louis picking snickers. i couldn't think of a single candy they put into those vending machines though so i went with it. maybe you come up with something better???)

Some nights in dark hotel rooms Louis can hear the silence scream in his head and even the noise of the television can’t make it shut up. Some nights Louis’ fingers crack when he grabs his phone of the night stand and he opens the messanger app he only uses for Harry. He types fast, his heart beating in his throat because that seems to be his default setting when it comes to Harry. Fuck. “You up?” He texts and it’s simple and the minute he clicks send he regrets it. He will come off as needy and annoying and that’s not Louis. When did this all spin out of control?

 

“Yes. Friends is on :)” And he smiles and two minutes later he is in Harry’s hotel room. It’s crazy and maybe scary how fast Harry can take up a room. It’s not just people who love his presence right away, who get sucked into the mess of curls and whirlwinds of browns, greens and flashing brightbrights. No, Harry can transform rooms and make them his, his smell everywhere, his clothes scattered and yet he always knows exactly where everything is. Sometimes Louis wishes he could lock Harry into a room only he is allowed to enter. Make him his, no sharing. All the colors stored into one room, all the brights and lights shoved into one room, locked away from the darkness and ugliness of the world. One room full of Harry just for Louis.

 

They watch at least a million episodes of Friends and talk in hushed voices,the flicker of the television casting strange shadow figures on their faces and Louis wants to retrace them on Harry’s skin. When Harry stops talking, he looks at Louis and studies his face, like a map, like he tries to know every single dimple, freckle, tiny hair on Louis’ face. Louis’ breath catches and he doesn’t know how there is still air anywhere in the world when Harry looks at him like that. All his outsides crumble and his insides are lit on fire and there is no room for anything but that look and the touch of Harry’s fingers on his arm.

 

“You look tired, Lou. You alright?” His voice is full of genuine concern and Louis’ heart breaks into a million pieces and he wants to know why. Why is that voiced reserved for him? Why is Harry lying next to Louis in a too big hotel room bed at 3am when he could be off doing whatever the fuck he wanted to? Why is Harry here? Why is Harry with Louis? He wants to ask all these things but none of the one million times he has gone through these questions in his head, was any less than pathetic. Fucking get a grip, Tomlinson.

 

“Well, you look very handsome!” Louis replies and smiles at Harry. And Harry’s face lights up, one million colors between his ears and Louis wants to soak it up, put it into a jar and lock it in a vault.

 

“Stop complimenting me, I am going to blush.” Harry says and it’s all fond and dimples.

 

Harry’s hand goes up to Louis’ cheek and his touch is incredibly hot on Louis’ skin. And Louis knows that unless Harry is running a fever his skin can’t possibly be so hot. Maybe it’s like in winter, Louis thinks. When your skin is numb and withered from hours spent outside. throwing snow balls, breaths fogging the air, someone always yelling, loudly and delighted. When you come inside after a day in the cold, your hands can barely turn the key in the lock. And when you run water over it, trying to get some feeling back into your hands, you can barely feel the water. Even barely warm water makes your skin feel like it’s on fire. Everything burns in a pleasant way and your skins almost sighs in relief. And that’s how Harry feels on his skin, a relief for something that’s been exposed to the cold for too long.

 

Louis can think of one million reasons why all of this is a bad idea. Why this, whatever the fuck this is, is the worst idea in the history of horrible ideas. He is 19 and Harry is 17 and everything is too much, all the time. It’s too much in a sense that is never enough. It pulls at his inside, his skin is too tight and he wants to reach out and touch Harry, make his skin prickle and his heart race. He feels sick with this feeling because he can’t place it. It’s like going over the top of a rollercoast, that single moment in the air when you feel like you are being pulled out of your seat just to get sucked back into it a second later. It’s that feeling between going up and going down again, your body doesn’t know where to pull and your stomach bounces. It’s a gross feeling and every single person who claims to like it would be lying. But it’s about going down again, that rush, that acceleration, that insane thrill of going straight towards the ground, that’s the reason people get on a rollercoaster in the first place. Being with Harry is a lot like that.

 

All of a sudden Louis needs to get out, get up and move because he would probably do something stupid if he didn’t. Harry is too close and it’s too dark and too intimate and every single bone in Louis’ body aches. Aches to touch, to give into all these feelings that sit on his chest in the form of a giant.

 

“Race me to the vending machine!?” He says and it sounds a lot less like a dare, too much like a question.

 

Louis is already out of the door before Harry realizes what’s really happening. But Harry legs are long and he catches up with Louis pretty fast. They run so fast, the hotel hallway turns into a blurr of colors, no doors or elevators, just a tunnel making sure they don’t take off like geese flying south. They are laughing and they are probably waking up the entire floor but Louis doesn’t care. He cares about seeing Harry’s hair bounce, jumping wildly up and down and the sound of their bare feet hitting the soft carpet.

 

When they finally reach the vending machine, Harry buckles over, panting: “Fuck, I don’t think I’ve ever run so fast in my entire life.”

 

Louis laughs: “Bet this was the fastest run to a vending machine ever. In history. We probably deserve an entry in the Guinness book of world records.”

 

At that Harry looks up and smiles at Louis. And Louis loves that he can do that, make Harry smile. If he had to choose to do one thing for the rest of his life, this would be it.

 

“Shit, I don’t even have any money on me, Lou. We didn’t think this through properly.” Harry’s brows furrow and Louis wants to kiss the creases away.

 

Louis lays down in front of the vending machine. The light inside the machine flickers every three seconds and it s harsh and bright, illuminating the small alcove at the end of the hallway. He lays down facing tne machine, putting his hands behind his head to rest on.

 

“Don’t need no money.” He says and looks at the items in the machine. “I am obviously going to get the snickers. What is everything else even doing in there?”

 

He can hear Harry chuckle and then feel him laying down next to him. Harry smells of shampoo and running and he is so close Louis realizes they are moving in circles. It doesn’t matter if they are in a hotel room, in a dimly lit hallway or on stage in front of a thousand people. Harry is always too close and Louis is always too overwhelmed by it.

 

“I think you are wrong.” Harry says matter-of-factly. “The skittles are the only option here.”

 

Louis laughs because what else can he do. Harry is stupid and Louis wants to care about everything in the world more than the two dimples that are so prominent on Harry’s face.

 

“Hey Lou?” Harry says very softly. It’s almost to quiet to hear over the constant humming of the vending machine.

 

“Mh?” Louis is tired but he can also feel Harry’s warmth next to him and it’s like there are ten thousand fireflies in his blood stream. He wonders how long a person can live with one thousand fireflies inside them, making their blood run quicker with every heart beat.

 

“What do you do when you want to do a certain thing but don’t know how?” Harry’s voice is timid and low. It doesn’t feel like they are in a endlessly long hallway, more like they are cramped into a small space, just their voices, hanging in the air.

“I don’t know.” And it’s a lame answer, Louis knows that. “I suppose I think about how much I want to do it and then think about if the consequences are worth it.” He shrugs and feels the soft texture of the carpent under his t-shirt. “Why?”

 

Harry shifts next to him and their shoulders bump. “There is a thing I want to do but I don’t know if I should do it.”

 

“If it feels right you should.” Louis says and he doesn’t know what made Harry ask him out of all people. Because Louis is shit at giving advice and he is usually there to provide entertainment, not life saving advice.

 

All of a sudden Harry is on his elbow, hovering over Louis. His heart is in his throat, he is sure every room on the floor can hear his heart beat. Harry looks at Louis and all Louis sees is green. And then Harry kisses him and all the greens dissolve and turn into a million colors. He closes his eyes and kisses back. He doesn’t know how long they kiss, he doesn’t know who pulls away first but it’s almost like time has stopped and sped up at the same time.

 

And Louis wants to take back everything he has said about kissing before. He wants to rethink the whole concept. Because kissing Harry is a lot like breathing once he started. He can’t stop and doesn’t want to stop. And Louis thinks that maybe he was premature when he thought making Harry laugh was the one thing he wanted to do for the rest of his life. It’s kissing Harry he wants to do for the rest of his life. It tingles in all the right places and maybe, he thinks, maybe he could do this for the next two weeks. Just kissing Harry and seeing the colors flash behind his eyes, feel the softness of Harry’s mouth against his, Harry’s tongue running lazy circles around his.

 

They kiss for a long time, maybe hours, Louis thinks. When they get up, their faces are flushed and Louis feels the rawness of his lips when he runs his tongue over it. They walk back to Harry’s room, their arms bumping into each other. Maybe this should be awkward or uncomfortable but it’s everything but. Louis feels the lightness settle in his chest when Harry lies down next to him on the white sheets. They look at each other and Louis notices that they are breathing in sync. It’s funny, he thinks, how someone he has met only a year ago can mean so much to him already.

  
They fall asleep facing each other, hands touching. Before he falls asleep, Louis can see the sunrise poking through the hotel room window. He can see the rays being split by the glass into one million colors, dust dancing in their midst. He doesn’t know where things will go with the band and with Harry. He doesn’t think that it will all be sparks of gold, he knows there will be angry reds and violent purples. Right now all he can think about is the warmth of Harry’s hand on his and the way their lips fit together like puzzle pieces. Right now he falls asleep in a sea of colors. The silence that engulfs him is no longer threatening. He can feel Harry’s breath on his face and the sun on his legs and for the first time in a long time he feels peaceful.


End file.
